


Extra-extracurricular Activity

by mzanthropist



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Multi, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 07:19:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2379686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mzanthropist/pseuds/mzanthropist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sara discovers Oliver’s other extracurricular activity. (Or the Arrow AU in which Team Arrow’s still kicking ass and taking names, just sans Felicity. Because she’s a little busy running a yoga studio and adjusting downward facing dogs.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extra-extracurricular Activity

**Author's Note:**

> Yoga instructor!Felicity struck me in the middle of my own yoga class. I obviously couldn't shake it loose.
> 
> This was intended to be Olicity (and still is, to some degree), but you add Sara into the mix and it's an inevitable downward spiral into Smoaking Canarrow territory.
> 
> Moreover, this was supposed to be a short drabble. Don't ask me how it got to be this cracky 3000-word monstrosity. Totally self-indulgent.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for dropping by and enjoy!

“So, I’ve been wondering something,” Sara grunts between a sharp inhale and clang of metal against metal.

 

Oliver hums, distractedly urging her to elaborate. His eyes cross and glass over as he pores over the document opened on the monitor in front of him. He blinks, feeling the beginnings of a headache that can undoubtedly be attributed to his futile attempt at making sense of QC’s latest financial statement. There’s a thunderous clang followed by noisy breathing, signalling the completion of Sara’s run on the salmon ladder. Giving up on cash flows and operating expenses for the time being, he twists his head slightly to bring her into his line of vision. He tips his head towards her, indicating she has his attention.

 

Sara blows a wisp of hair out of her face, still dangling from the bar perched on the ladder’s highest rung. She cocks her head to the side curiously. “Where is it exactly that you sneak off to every other night?”

 

Oliver immediately swivels back around, hand snatching up the mouse and eyes locking onto the dollar signs and various multi-digit figures with an intensity that’s unwarranted for a report this boring. He probably couldn’t get any more obvious if he tried, but her question is completely unexpected and the reflexes he’s perfected the past five years weren’t exactly equipped to handle this particular type of surprise. He tries to compensate by infusing as much nonchalance into his voice. “What?” It comes out raspy and choked. He tries again. “Sara, I’m kind of busy.” Better.

 

Sara snorts. “I know for a fact that you’d rather watch Roy stick his tongue down Thea’s throat than try to memorize QC’s quarterly earnings and expenses to be regurgitated at potential investors.” That wasn’t untrue. “So don’t even try playing dumb with me.”

 

Oliver scrubs a hand over his eyes, trying to ease the burning on his retinas from the screen’s brightness. He grunts noncommittally, his fall back for whenever someone pushes an issue.

 

“Or play the obtuse Neanderthal card.”

 

_Damn her._ Sometimes he forgets Sara could read him like a book. Still carefully avoiding eye contact (Sara’s penetrating gaze is unnerving as hell. Stonier men than he have succumbed to it, and he’d really prefer not to be another victim.), Oliver rises from his seat and makes his way over to the climate-controlled, glass display housing his uniform.

 

In his peripheral vision, he catches sight of her lips curling into a smirk, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary because she knows she’s got him cornered. She rocks her body into a swing. “Every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday for the past month you’ve passed off patrols to either Roy, Digg or me. Totally weird and unusual for a guy who’s never done delegation very well. I mean, you have not once sat out on patrol, not even that time you were limping around like House, — ” (Oliver congratulates himself in catching the reference.) “—cane and all. You’ve made patrolling this city your life mission, your literal ball-and-chain, since you started this vigilante-in-the-hood-Arrow business. And now you just skip out three times a week?”

 

Maintaining his reticence (because there is no way he could convincingly lie about his truancy being QC-related), Oliver eases open the glass door and peels the green leather off the mannequin. His movements are measured and deliberate, lest he unwittingly give away any more information through his body movements.

 

Sara continues on, completely undeterred. “And then there’s the fact that after you’ve gotten rid of us, you ride off on your bike to some unknown destination. At exactly half past seven each time.”

 

He tries to school his features into one of inscrutable indifference before chancing a glance over his shoulder. “Good to know you’ve been checking out the security footage on a regular basis,” he says evenly.

 

The blonde rolls her eyes. Using momentum from a swing, she gracefully hoists herself up and onto the metal bar, hands bracketing her hips for balance as she settles into a perch. “Yeah, I’m basically the only person on this team who possesses even a modicum of tech savviness. So, like it or not, it usually falls on me to deal with anything involving a lens, screen or flash drive.” She narrows her eyes accusingly. “And don’t you dare try changing the subject.”

 

“I’m not,” Oliver defends mildly, pulling the leather of his jacket over his shoulders. (He totally is.)

 

“See, this is strange too. Four weeks ago, you probably would have been all explosive rage and ‘mind your own damn business’ halfway into this quasi-interrogation. But today? Today, you’re all blasé and indifferent and _way_ too laid-back about it all.” Oliver feels her gaze boring a hole into his shoulder as he concentrates on the laces of his boots. “These furtive night excursions have at least, thank God, put you in a better mood. So, spill, Ollie.”

 

“There’s nothing to tell,” Oliver replies, straightening up from his crouch and slipping on his gloves.

 

Sara scoffs derisively. “That is a load of bullshit. There is most definitely _plenty_ to tell.” A thoughtful silence ensues, and Oliver entertains the hope that the subject has been dropped. “Are you seeing someone?” That hope immediately evaporates. “Are you scowling less because you’re channelling all your pent-up rage into some really fun sexy times?”

 

Oliver eyes her wryly over his shoulder, simultaneously offended and amused that this is the conclusion she’s chosen to draw to explain his strange behaviour. “No, Sara, I am not currently humping my way through my aggressive tendencies and repressed emotions.”

 

“Really? Because you can tell me if you are. I am one hundred percent supportive of whatever therapy you find helpful. And humping and pumping isn’t exactly the worst way to go about it. At least you’re not cage fighting Ryan Atwood-styles.” She eyes him warily. “Although, it wouldn’t surprise me if you were.” She squints. “But I haven’t noticed any injuries that can’t be explained by your extracurricular activities…”

 

“As far as I’m aware, I’m not a participating in any seedy cage matches or underground fight clubs.”

 

“Sure, that’s what you think. But for all you know, you could be suffering from a dissociative disorder and you’re in the midst of an episode whenever you decide it’s a good idea to punch a guy for the hell of it.”

 

“Sara.”

 

“Alright, alright, I believe you…” Sara drifts off, her doubious tone contradicting her words.

 

Oliver shoots her a stern look. “Yes, please do,” he says firmly, hoping his tone leaves no room for further discussion.

 

Huffing indignantly at the dismissal, Sara hooks and locks the back of her knees against the bar, lowering down her upper body so that she’s hanging upside down facing Oliver. She crosses her arms across her chest and watches as he slips the mask over his eyes, straps his quiver onto his back and flips his hood up over his head. “Where’re you going all suited up? Is there some day mission you forgot to tell me about?”

 

“No, just patrols.” He casually strolls over to the back entrance, plucking his bow out of the armoury on his way. “Apparently, I’ve been shirking my duties lately.”

 

“Ha! Your sass is in fine form today, mister. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s one in the afternoon on a Monday. The worst you’re going to find is a gang of schoolyard bullies hanging skinny freckled kids by their feet, shaking lunch money out of their pockets. Maybe even stuffing them in lockers if they’re feeling extra ballsy.”

 

“As far as I’m concerned, criminals are free to conduct criminal activities at all hours of the day. It’s kind of in the job description.”

 

“Hmm. I suppose you’ve got a point there. Who knows, there may be some baddies running around wearing nightmare-inducing nun masks and robbing banks as we speak.”

 

“Nun masks?”

 

Sara bobs her head. “A highly effective disguise, apparently.”

 

Oliver shoots her one last confused look. “Roy’s supposed to come in around three to get started on inventory. Do you mind reminding him that the list is behind the bar and the shipment of tequila’s due to arrive at four?”

 

Sara narrows her eyes. “Nuh-uh. I know an Oliver Queen distraction tactic when I see one. Evade, deflect, flee. And this is a classic example of it in action. You’ve evaded, you’ve deflected. The only thing left is to flee.” She points an accusatory finger at him as he turns toward the exit. “Something’s clearly up with you and whatever’s keeping you preoccupied on select nights of the week.”

 

“Thanks, Sara.” Oliver punches in the security code to unlock the door.

 

“This conversation is not over!” Sara’s determined voice reverberates through the foundry. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this thing!”

 

\---

 

If there’s one thing Oliver both loves and hates about Sara (other than her ability to kick some major ass – both his and those of burly henchmen), it’s her dogged and eerily steely perseverance. Which is why he really isn’t all that surprised to find her waiting for him, leaning casually against his bike, as he steps out of the small brick building the following night. It’s actually almost expected, given her fervent promise to uncover his secret. “How’d you find me?” he asks in lieu of a greeting.

 

She glares, but it lacks any real heat. “I’m plenty capable of tracking a person down, Ollie.” She quirks an eyebrow, nodding to the sign (which reads _Hasti Studio_ ) past his shoulder. “Yoga?”

 

He shrugs as he steps onto the sidewalk. “Aren’t you supposed to be on patrol?” he responds with a non-answer.

 

“Slow night. Roy and Digg are on it.” She pushes herself off the bike. “So, I guess it wasn’t mind-blowing sex that was keeping you in the chill zone.”

 

“No.”

 

“You know, I think I might benefit from some yoga in my life as well. Actually, come to think of it, so could Roy and Digg. Mostly Roy because, you know, his rage and impulse issues sometimes make him a liability in the field, and yoga might be a way to mellow him out a bit. We should make this a team-bonding thing. Way less violent and _savage_ than sparring and hand-to-hand combat, no? Some good stretching and muscle relaxation is probably good for the soul, right?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why not? Imagine Digg trying to touch his toes!” She pauses for a cackle. “That alone, my friend, should be reason enough to authorize my request.”

 

Oliver tries to keep his expression stern, but the corners of his lips twitch traitorously. This does not go unnoticed by Sara.

 

“Oh, I’m wearing you down, aren’t I?” she chortles gleefully. “Come on, Ollie – ” she suddenly breaks off, eyes trained on something behind him. He twists to follow her line of vision, his gaze landing on a blonde-haired woman in a magenta tank, a bright and fluorescent juxtaposition to the evening’s darkness, approaching them.

 

“Oliver, hey,” she says as she comes to a stop in front of him, a small smile on her lips. As he turns his body to fully face her, Oliver feels his lips stretch automatically to mirror her expression. (This also does not go unnoticed by Sara.) “I thought I might have missed you.” She holds out a rolled up cylinder of green rubber in her hands. “You forgot your mat.”

 

Oliver huffs out a sheepish laugh, his fingers brushing hers as he reaches for the proffered item. “Thanks,” he says warmly.

 

She beams in return. “No worries. I can get really absentminded after class sometimes too.” She scrunches her nose as she tilts her head in consideration. “Actually, yoga apparently makes a lot of people forgetful, which, by the way, totally flies in the face of the notion that it fosters mindfulness. We’ve got an entire storage room in there with probably twenty mats that will never be claimed and a collection of maybe thirtyish water bottles belonging to various strangers. So, not the first time something like this has happened and definitely won’t be the last. I’m just glad your mat – ” she gestures toward the object in question “—isn’t going to be the newest addition to the ‘Yoga Gear No One Cares Enough About to Reclaim’ collection we’ve got going.” She pauses for a breath. “Come to think of it, we’ve got a lot of stuff in there just accumulating dust and going to waste. I guess it’s probably about time we donate some of that stuff. Or sell it at discounted prices and donate the proceeds to a charity. Only, most people seem incredibly reluctant to buy secondhand or pre-owned yoga gear. Especially if the previous owner was really sweaty or something, like they’d know. But honestly, it’s not any worse than buying vintage shoes. Besides, we’ve got really good disinfectant sprays, and it’s not as if people don’t share bodily fluids all the time off the mat, you know?” She stops her ramble and looks to Oliver, whose smile is tinged with amusement by this point, for his input.

 

He nods congenially. “Hey, I’ve seen guys share deodorant. Can’t be any worse than that, right?”

 

She throws up her hands. “Thank you! Disinfected yoga mats have _got_ to be more hygienic than sharing a product that has touched another person’s armpit. Or this should at least be the mainstream opinion. Otherwise, something is terribly wrong with either society, the human race, or both.”

 

A hearty chuckle floats toward them, Sara seemingly endeared by the other blonde’s exasperation. “You’re cute.”

 

Before him, the eyes of his conversation partner widen comically. Oliver bites down on his bottom lip to contain the laughter bubbling in his chest. He watches as she adjusts her glasses self-consciously and peers around him. “Heh, most people find my babbling a huge turnoff.”

 

“Not me. And probably not Oliver either.” He can practically _feel_ Sara throwing him a smug, knowing look.

 

Oliver angles his body so that he’s bridging the space between the two women. Glaring at Sara’s self-satisfied smirk (he totally called it), his hand sweeps in one direction, “Sara Lance, Felicity Smoak,” then the other, “Felicity, Sara.”

 

Felicity raises and flicks her hand at the wrist in a bashful wave, the swish of her ponytail only accentuating the adorableness of the movement to both Sara and Oliver. “Hi. I swear there’s more to me than outraged rants about the skewed hygienic priorities of society. Or rambling incessantly and nonsensically in general.”

 

Sara flashes a warm smile. “I’m a huge fan of incoherent ramblers. Although, I think you might be reluctant to befriend me once you’ve discovered my deep, dark secret.”

 

“Oh?” Felicity’s brows furrow in confusion, just as Oliver’s own crinkle in warning with an imperceptible shake of his head.

 

Sara rolls her eyes and shoots him an exasperated look. ( _I’m not an idiot. The Canary was obviously_ not _the secret I was referring to_.) She grins at Felicity. “Yeah, I’m afraid I’m thoroughly guilty of being one of those people who are grossed out by secondhand equipment but also happen to have zero qualms about sharing various articles of clothes and hygiene products with other people. I hope that’s not a fatal strike against my character. I’d hate to be written off as snooty and high-maintenance.” She winks.

 

A puff of laughter escapes Felicity, eyes crinkled with mirth. “Yes,” she nods ebulliently, ponytail bobbing with every movement, “that is totally a tragic character flaw. But we’ll convert you yet, you’ll see.”

 

“Can’t wait.” Oliver’s purses his lips in irritation as Sara smirks in his direction for the millionth time that night. _You are so obvious_ , she mouths. He quickly glances over at Felicity. Face tilted toward him, she thankfully doesn’t seem to have noticed.

 

Just then, a man pokes his head out the studio door. “Hey, Felicity, Yin in five.”

 

Swivelling at the hips, Felicity addresses the speaker. “Oh, right! Be there in a sec! Thanks, Barry!”

 

“Sure thing.”

 

Felicity turns back, her smile still bright. “Well, I’ve got to head back in. Twenty tightly wound bodies beckon for release.” She pauses, smile dropping and a mortified expression taking its place. “From a hard day’s work!” she appends in a rush, a blush spreading across her cheeks. “Most of the clientele this late at night are executives or lawyers – basically, they all have extremely stressful jobs! And Yin focuses on stretching and maintaining longer, deeper holds to massage the muscles for restoration and tension release. Really popular class. Although I’m sure there are other ways to go about releasing tension in the comfort of one’s own home…”

 

There’s a sudden abeyance of speech as her mouth clamps shut over the last innuendo and her eyes roll skyward, pleading with whatever deity was up there to just open up the sidewalk and let it swallow her whole. With a forceful exhale, her eyes snap back to her companions. “I just want to clarify: I run a legitimate business! Any and all weird body contortions, heavy breathing, breathy moans and sweaty bodies in there are strictly yoga-related. I do not run an after-hours sex club! So I will absolutely _not_ be facilitating an orgy for the next hour in there!” She groans, palming her forehead.

 

Breathing deeply and squaring her shoulders, Felicity lifts her gaze to meet Sara and Oliver’s broad grins. “Okay, since I clearly am not going to be digging myself out of this mess, I’m just going to quit while I’m ahead and stop talking _right now_. Because if I don’t, I’m guaranteed to embarrass myself to the point where I’ll be begging for a shovel to dig my own grave with. Or there’ll be a high probability of me inadvertently make a pass at either or both of you.” A beat as she realizes her gaffe. Oliver and Sara begin to resemble deranged hyenas, their grins having stretched impossibly wider. “Which I probably didn’t need to share.”

 

Felicity shifts her gaze between the two of them. “So, uh, Oliver, I’ll see you Thursday? And Sara, you’re welcome to drop in for a class anytime. First one’s on the house!” She flashes a crooked smile. “’Kay, bye!” With an awkward but no less cheerful wave, Felicity scurries back into the studio.

 

When the door shuts behind her, Oliver slides his gaze to where Sara’s bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Huh. So, I’m definitely tagging along next time.” He sighs, resigning himself to the mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “With or without Digg and Roy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hasti is sanskrit for green (according to Google).
> 
> Thanks for reading and please let me know what you thought!


End file.
